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  Praise for Murder’s No Votive Confidence

  “A charming mystery with believable, likeable characters. Check it out.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “Charming . . . With this great cast and setting, Murder’s No Votive Confidence was a very enjoyable take on the country house mystery.”

  —Criminal Element

  “This is a perfect summer cozy with a lush setting and a fun heroine.”

  —Parkersburg News & Sentinel

  “A cozy with candles, conspiring couples, and a cat—what could be a better combination? Christin Brecher’s debut mystery has all those and more.”

  —Kaitlyn Dunnett, author of Clause & Effect

  “A scentsational new series! Christin Brecher’s charming debut, Murder’s No Votive Confidence, glows with a seaside location, a candle shop, and a kitty that will melt your heart. Interesting characters and a twisting plot will keep you intrigued to the very end.”

  —Krista Davis, author of The Diva Sweetens the Pie

  “A charmingly fun whodunnit with plenty of twists and turns and delightfully quirky characters. Murder’s No Votive Confidence had me hooked from the first pages.”

  —Kirsten Weiss, author of Bleeding Tarts

  “The first book in the Nantucket Candle Maker Mystery series by Christin Brecher burns bright with a delightful protagonist, realistic characters, and an intriguing plot—a breath of fresh Nantucket air!”

  —Barbara Allan, author of Antiques Ravin’

  Also by Christin Brecher

  Murder’s No Votive Confidence

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Murder Makes Scents

  Christin Brecher

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Recipe

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Christin Brecher

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2141-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2142-6 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2142-X (eBook)

  To Tommy and Carly

  With all my love

  Chapter 1

  I was in heaven.

  I was in Paris.

  I was at Cire Trudon, one of the city’s finest candle stores.

  Most visitors to Paris look forward to the cheeses and breads, the art, the bridges linking the Left and Right Banks, the sparkle of the Eiffel Tower at night. I was in Paris to enjoy all of those highlights, plus a few more. As proprietor of the Wick & Flame, my candle store on Nantucket Island, I had my own enchantments to enjoy.

  This beautiful autumn morning, I had already made a pilgrimage to Diptyque, the internationally renowned French candle company. My senses alit, I’d followed my visit with a stroll through the Tuileries Gardens and over the Pont Royal, where the Bateau Mouche floated below me on the Seine. Once across the river, I’d visited Quintessence Paris, a one-of-a-kind establishment which leads customers from room to room of a grand home to enjoy candles designed for each living space.

  I had particularly wanted to visit Quintessence Paris because it is run by a woman from a perfume family. I’m also the daughter of a perfumer. In fact, I was in Paris because of my mother, Millie Wright. The World Perfumery Conference was taking place this week, and they had invited her to speak on a panel entitled “The Art of Scent Extractions.”

  When Millie had called me three weeks ago to propose I meet her in Paris, I knew that the invitation was an unspoken apology. This summer, she’d had plans to come home, a rare event, but then she’d cancelled at the last minute. An opportunity had come up to visit scientists in the rainforest to learn about indigenous scents. Something about absorption traps. All very scientific. The trip had ultimately led to her invitation to speak at the conference, and I think she wanted me to see that her detour had been worthwhile.

  I’d had one caveat, which was that she had to return with me to Nantucket for a visit as well, but the truth was, she and I both knew I would accept her good-will gesture. A sorry is nice, but Paris is Paris, and this was one case where our sense of adventure aligned. Millie is happiest roaming the world, seeking unique and exotic scents to create perfumes. In contrast, I find my buzz on Nantucket, running my store, the Wick & Flame, and tackling my candle creations. I’d also solved a murder a few months ago, so I argue that you can discover the mysteries of the world right outside your front door.

  Now, I was among candles of every size, color, and scent at Cire Trudon. I reverently admired a display of tapers, piled in tidy rows by color against the back wall. Then I marveled over an elegant circle of bell jars which encased sophisticated scents on a round table in the middle of the room. I lifted a jar from a candle called Byron, melting into its peppery scent, and thought how wonderful the aroma would be during a winter’s day on Nantucket. Thirty miles off the coast of Massachusetts, my hometown was a chilly place in February, and a warm scent does wonders for body and soul. My nose sated, I crossed the store with the quiet reverence one saves for museums, to admire their pièce de résistance. On a credenza at the far side of the store was a remarkable group of wax busts featuring characters in French history, tempting customers to light the wicks atop their heads. Marie Antoinette stared at me, daring me to try. As if I would. Her molded hair was too fabulous to mess with.

  The sales associate politely indulged me while I took a few snaps of the candle busts on display. As I zoomed in on a stern-faced Napoleon, my phone pinged a photo from my boyfriend, Peter, who was back home. His lopsided grin and the lock of blond hair over his forehead remin
ded me of his boyish charm, while the look in his eyes made me miss his warm embrace. I smiled at the image of him holding up four fingers, and I sent a thumbs-up selfie back to him. We’d recently hit the four-month mark in our relationship, and we were feeling pretty smug about ourselves. I hated to jinx myself, but life was good. In addition to the magic of new love coursing through my veins, my business had been strong enough over the summer that I’d felt confident to leave for a few days abroad. Even the timing of the trip was perfect, since everyone back home had begun to remind me that my birthday was coming up. Thirty. I might have been imagining it, but the reminder was often followed with a look that made me feel like I had spinach in my teeth.

  “May I help you?” the sales associate asked. From her subtle pout, I realized that I’d crossed a line when my attention had shifted from her candles to Peter’s text.

  “Non, merci,” I said, practicing my accent. I checked the time. It was later than I’d realized. With one last tour of the establishment and a friendly “au revoir,” I picked up a healthy pace to meet Millie for a snack at a café across the street from the conference center on the Left Bank.

  Today was the end of the conference, and after my mom’s presentation we’d be heading back to Nantucket, but Millie and I had likely patronized a year’s worth of cafés over the last few days. We’d had a ball sitting at small, round tables, unlit Gauloises cigarettes dangling from our lips for a cinema-noire effect as we drank our café cremes and people-watched. The parade of high-style, fabulous couples walking hand in hand, and even the dogs enjoying croissant crumbs from the pavement beside the cafés, was captivating.

  It took a few minutes longer than I anticipated to reach what had become our favorite haunt, Café Bonne Chance, because I had to wait by the Odeon as a caravan of black cars, with a motorcade on each side, passed by. The much talked about Peace Jubilee was being held the following week in Paris. Already, the city was filling up with important foreign leaders for strategic meetings and with citizens from all walks who had opinions to voice. It was an exciting moment to be in the city. Unlike other peace summits, leaders from small kingdoms, in some cases from remote areas, were invited to share insights into how they promoted peace. Including these new voices at the table had created excitement around the globe. I couldn’t help think what good sports the Parisians were. The closed-off streets, the demonstrations, and the obligations that came with such an undertaking made me appreciate the simplicity of my small-town life.

  When I finally arrived, Millie was already seated at an outdoor table with the coat check lady from the World Perfumery Conference, Olive Tidings. The two women both loved the spot for breakfast and had become fast friends over the last few days while enjoying their morning pastries. A stocky British woman, Olive wore skirted tweed suits every day. She was warm enough on even the chilliest occasions with no more than a matching fedora.

  “Bonjour, Stella,” my mom said with outstretched arms as I pulled up a chair.

  We kissed on each cheek as if we were French. We both knew how silly we’d look with such formality back home, but we could not resist. In honor of the panel, Millie’s fabulous red hair, a Wright trait that contrasts starkly with my dark, wild mane, was pulled into a soft updo. She wore a thick, navy sweater secured with big black buttons, high black boots, and bright red lipstick. She was a striking woman whose story-telling skills were even more enchanting. Her audience was in for a treat.

  “Maybe it’s because we’re leaving later this afternoon,” said my mother, “but the croissants are particularly delicious today. I ordered one for you.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Olive wholeheartedly, over a bite of her own pastry. She waved at two men in business suits who returned a friendly greeting as they passed us. Through her job at the coat check room, Olive had seemingly met everyone.

  “I think this week was a sign you need to travel more, Olive,” said Millie with a speech I knew she liked to make to anyone she thought she might convert to her nomadic lifestyle. “I can see you like people and places too much to be cloistered in that school all the time. And people love you.”

  Millie and I found it endlessly fascinating that the conference’s coat checker was actually a literature teacher from an all-girls boarding school in England. After twenty years of teaching, Olive was on sabbatical and had always dreamed of visiting Paris. After three days of rich, French foods, however, she’d realized she wasn’t a lady of leisure. Noticing an ad in Le Monde about the conference, she’d applied for a job and landed one working at the coat check.

  “I always say, greet people with a smile, or your day will be rubbish,” Olive said. To prove her point, she smiled across the sea of customers at Café Bonne Chance, and nodded at one woman who caught her eye.

  “To smiles,” said Millie.

  The ladies clinked their cups. I ordered an espresso and shared my morning’s excursions as they peppered me with questions and enjoyed my photos. Finally, Olive looked at her watch.

  “I’ll say my good-byes to you,” she said, rising from her chair. “And head off to make some others. I had a lovely time meeting you this week.”

  “I never say good-bye,” said Millie. True, but after six months without coming home, I knew there were some folks back on Nantucket who felt they’d seen the last of her. “And remember what I said about travel. Mi casa es su casa.”

  “Thank you,” said Olive. “But be careful what you say. I have a lot of time on my hands.”

  We hugged and said our good-byes, and Olive Tidings took off ahead of us in thick-soled shoes.

  “We should head over too,” said Millie, after finishing her croissant.

  Picking up her black bag, which contained perfume samples she planned to highlight during her presentation, Millie linked arms with me, and we headed to the last day of the World Perfumery Conference.

  Three blocks later, the sliding doors of the conference hotel opened automatically. We entered the lobby, which was filled with people with rolling bags and name tags, all of them carrying folders of some sort or another. Posters lined the walls with advertisements for new perfumes. Some of the brands were familiar, mass-market products, and others were for the kinds of companies that catered to the industry—mixers, distributors, packagers. The heart of the conference was taking place down a long, wide corridor covered in a deep red carpet, off of which were meeting rooms, large and small.

  I pulled out my phone and flipped it to video. I’d been making short, documentary-style clips of the trip all weekend, and this was the highlight I couldn’t miss.

  “How does it feel to be a scent-extractions expert?” I said to my mom. “Look at the camera.”

  “Hi.” She waved.

  I was about to ask her another question, but the lobby was crowded and noisy with people bumping into each other as they headed to their panels or meetings without so much as a “pardon.” I decided I’d try again later at a better location.

  My mom and I entered the conference’s main area where people registered or met for impromptu meetings in one of several lounge areas. We headed to a map displayed against one wall which outlined the day’s events, so that we could confirm how to get to her panel. While I located where the meeting was to take place, and where we could find a rest stop along the way, Millie opened her bag on a bench beside me and looked through her inventory one last time. She took out her vials, examined them carefully, and opened one or two. She was a perfectionist when it came to her work, and her black bag was like an on-the-go lab. Similar in size and shape to a doctor’s bag, she’d had her prized accessory custom designed around the time I was born by a leather maker at the San Lorenzo market in Florence, Italy. That bag had been around so long, I sometimes wondered if it held some deeper meaning for her. Between my name, my wild mane of hair, and my Mediterranean complexion, I sometimes fancied as a child that I could be Italian. Millie, however, had always been quiet about my father’s identity.

  When I’d figured
out the lay of the land, I turned on my phone’s camera again.

  “Let me get a video of you in front of the map,” I said.

  Millie gathered her belongings and struck a pose like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune.

  “Welcome to the World Perfumery Conference,” she said to the camera, her arms gracefully directed to the map. “Here you will see—”

  Her speech was interrupted by a collective cry from the far end of the conference’s reception area. A woman screamed, a man yelled something in French, another person cried out in Japanese.

  As panic grew like a wave among the crowd, my mind went immediately to the worst. Shootings. Terrorism. I heard others around me express the same fear, which made my blood run cold. My beautiful morning, and our excitement about the afternoon’s panel, had suddenly been hijacked by chaos.

  “What’s going on?” my mom said.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. I considered that we should run for cover, as many around us were, but my instinct to fight usually wins over that of flight.

  Suddenly, I saw a group of people forming by the Grand Ballroom. They were yelling and calling for help. Their circular formation suggested that a single person lay within their midst. In moments, the fear that had spread across the crowded lobby shifted to the sort of curiosity that accompanies drivers on a highway who want a glimpse of an accident. We were grateful it wasn’t us, hopeful help would come quickly, and slightly morbid in our desire to see the scene unfold. My mom and I took a few steps forward.

  “Probably a heart attack,” she said.

  “I hope the French paramedics are fast,” I said.

  “Meurtre,” someone cried from the middle of the crowd.

  My French is rudimentary at best, but there are words which, when said a certain way, and given the right context, can be universally understood. This was one of them.